Aravon took in the scene in an instant, and horror raced through him. They had come too late to save some of the captives, but he’d be damned if he let Tyr Farbjodr execute them all.
“FARBJODR!” His roar echoed off the walls of the pit mine, drowning out the shrieks and screams of the struggling captives. “Your day of reckoning has come!”
The Eirdkilr commander’s head whipped around and up. His eyes snapped to where Aravon sat at the top of the pit mine, narrowed. Something about that gaze sent a shudder down Aravon’s spine, even from this distance. So terribly…evil. Cold, cunning, vicious, like the monster of nightmare that had shared his name.
Long seconds passed in utter silence. All in the pit mine went still, all cries fading. Even the shrieks and wails of the injured and dying seemed to dissipate, until nothing remained but Aravon and Tyr Farbjodr. Gazes locked, like two predators circling each other, searching for weakness. A wicked light shone in Tyr Farbjodr’s eyes…eyes far too dark set into a face stained bright blue with Eirdkilr war paint.
Tyr Farbjodr moved first. Turned, barked an order to the nearest Eirdkilrs. Too quiet for Aravon to hear, yet the sudden flurry of motion among the giant barbarians left no doubt as to its meaning.
The Eirdkilrs were coming to kill them.
Eighty giants stood with Tyr Farbjodr—dragging the captives to their deaths, guarding their commander, the archway, and the stone circle. At Farbjodr’s command, thirty broke off from their comrades and raced toward the nearest ramp. A handful drew bows, nocked arrows, and loosed. Their shafts fell far short, and they abandoned their longbows in favor of massive axes, clubs, spears, and shields. Like a tidal wave of fury and rage, they raced up the ramp toward Aravon.
Come and get it, you bastards! With a grim smile, Aravon clapped his heels to his horse’s ribs and charged down the incline. His spear led the way, razor-sharp steel head couched like a lance against his side. Down, down, down he rode, zigzagging back and forth along the down ramp, racing toward the enemy that even now raced up to meet him.
Tyr Farbjodr’s laughter once more echoed through the pit mine. Harsher, crueler than before, filled with a vicious glee. “Too late!” he roared between peals of bestial guffaws. “You cannot stop me now!”
Aravon tore his eyes away from the down ramp, risked a glance into the bottom of the pit mine. Tyr Farbjodr now stood within the stone circle, his fingers locked around the throat of a Deid captive, his eyes locked on Aravon. With a vicious wrench, he ripped out the side of the Fehlan’s neck, cartilage, flesh, veins, and all. Blood sprayed over his face, staining his hair, beard, furs, and armor. He basked in it, opened his mouth wide to drink in the gush of red.
A wordless cry of rage burst from Aravon’s throat, but there was nothing he could do. Nothing to stop Tyr Farbjodr from striding toward the next captive—a Deid woman—and gripping her skull between his massive hands.
Suddenly, the horse beneath him skidded on a patch of mud. Panic froze Aravon’s heart as the massive beast careened toward the edge of the ramp. He had only an instant to hurl himself from the saddle, spear in hand, before the huge charger plummeted off the side of the cliff and fell a hundred feet to the base of the mine far below.
Aravon landed hard on his back and side. Pain flared all along his ribs, up his spine, through his bruised chest. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs in a vicious gasp. He struggled upright, his legs aching, just in time to throw himself out of the way of Colborn’s charging horse. The Lieutenant raced past, shield held out before him, sword gripped low to strike.
But behind the Lieutenant came another horse, this one with an empty saddle. Captain Lingram’s mount!
Aravon had only an instant to act. He broke into a mad dash, racing downhill alongside the charging horse. Ignoring the agony flaring in his ribs, he reached up, seized the saddle horn, and hauled himself upward. At the same time, he leapt as high as he could, with all the strength in his legs. He cleared the horse’s back, right leg swinging up and over the saddle. Dragged himself upright, spear miraculously still in his hand.
Triumph surged within him, fueling his muscles. He’d barely hoped that would work, yet here he sat, once more racing down the ramp. Straight toward the charging Eirdkilrs.
No, charging no longer. The Eirdkilrs had stopped a third of the way up the ramp, locked shields. A solid wall of flesh, wood, and steel that barred their way down the hill.
Gritting his teeth, Aravon lowered his spear like a cavalry lance and leaned forward into the charge. Just ahead of him, Colborn pulled his legs from the stirrups and set his boots on his saddle.
What the fiery hell is he—
Before the thought fully formed, Colborn rose to his feet and leapt forward. His leap, backed by the power of his muscles and the speed of his charging horse, carried him ten yards downhill. Like an arrow loosed from Skathi’s longbow, he flew toward the formed-up Eirdkilrs and crashed into them. The sudden weight bore the Eirdkilrs to the ground. Shattered their shield wall, just enough that the charging warhorse plowed right through the momentarily disorganized mass.
Metal-shod hooves crunched into flesh, muscle, and bone with terrifying force. The warhorse lashed out as it thundered past, its rear hooves driving into an Eirdkilr’s face. The giant flew through the air and crashed with a grim splat against the rock wall, slid down the cliff, leaving a trail of blood. Straight through the now-disrupted formation of Eirdkilrs the riderless warhorse charged. Like a runaway wagon, barreling through the giant barbarians.
In the heartbeat before Aravon reached the fractured shield wall, Colborn dragged himself free of the giants and flattened himself against the wall of the cliff. Just in time to avoid Aravon’s slashing spear. The weapon would never survive a direct charge—it was no hardened lance, forged to withstand straight impact—so he wielded it as he would a longsword. Hacking, slashing, chopping with the heavy blade at any Eirdkilr within his reach.
Blood misted in the air around him. Eirdkilrs screamed, roared, and died beneath his horse’s hooves, his flashing spear, and the force of his charge. Giants flew off the cliff to plummet to their deaths on the muddy ground far below, shrieking as they fell, their cries drowned in the embrace of the crimson-stained mud.
Then Aravon was through, past the line of twenty Eirdkilrs, his horse never slowing in the mad dash down the ramp.
He had no time to look back at Colborn and his fellow Grim Reavers racing behind. His eyes locked on the giant tearing his way through the captives in the stone circle.
The base of the mine was so far below; he’d never make it in time. Horror writhed in his gut as Tyr Farbjodr locked bloodstained, clawed fingers around Skuli’s throat and lifted the dazed, bleeding Deid miner bodily from the ground. The giant didn’t tear the man apart—instead, he held Skuli in the air, iron grip encircling the man’s neck, cutting off his air. Skuli struggled weakly, his legs kicking, yet he could do nothing. Nothing but die in the Eirdkilr’s grasp.
Fire blazed to life within the core of Aravon’s being. He couldn’t reach the captives in time to save Hallad, Hrani, Skuli, and all of the others. They had to save themselves.
“Fight!” he roared in Fehlan. “Fight for your lives! Fight for your families. Fight for this world, your world, the world he seeks to destroy!” He repeated the shout in the language of the Princelands. His voice rang off the high stone walls around him, rising in volume with every heartbeat, echoed by the thundering beat of his horse’s hooves and the din of battle raging above him.
He never saw which captive made the first move. His eyes were locked on the muddy ramp ahead, save for the occasional glance he could spare for Tyr Farbjodr and the struggling Skuli in his bloody grasp. Yet, one moment he shouted alone—his voice growing raw and ragged—the next, a hundred voices took up the cry.
“Fight!” Fehlans and Princelanders shouted, each in their own tongue. “Fight!”
“For Striith!” roared the Fjall.
“For Nuius!” answered t
he Eyrr.
“For Olfossa!” The Deid lent their voice.
The Myrr took up the call. “For Megin!”
“For the Princelands!”
The tumult echoed through the base of the pit mine, and suddenly the air was alive with the screams of battle, the clash of steel, the thump of weapons carving through flesh and bone. Hundreds of feet splashed through the muck. Shouts of rage, panic, fear, pain, and horror echoed through the pit mine.
Aravon skidded around a bend in the descending ramp, charged down the last stretch of muddy track toward the base of the mine. Straight into a company of Eirdkilrs sent to kill him.
Five of the giants, spears held at the ready, like pikemen braced for the charge. Fear drove an icy dagger into Aravon’s gut. Yet he never wavered, never slowed. Racing, his horse’s hooves churning up the mud and blood beneath his feet, right into the teeth of the Eirdkilr spears.
Until the last second, when he sawed at his horse’s reins, pulling sharply to the right. The charger leapt off the edge of the down ramp, soaring through the air, dropped the five feet to the muddy bottom of the mine. Skidding on slippery muck, thrashing to find purchase. The horse found its feet, dug its metal-shod hooves into the mud, and took off once more at a gallop. Past the Eirdkilrs staring at him, too stunned to raise their spears in time to ward off Belthar’s charge. The huge man drove into them with bone-shattering force, axe whirling like a tornado of steel and fury.
But Aravon could not think of the battle behind, only the one ahead. All through the bottom of the pit mine, the Princelanders and Fehlans hurled themselves onto their Eirdkilr captors. Teeth bared, empty hands clawing at eyes and throats, fingers grasping for the weapons held in the giants’ hands. Burying the giants in the mud, bashing in skulls and shattering limbs with buckets, wooden yokes, picks, hammers, even chunks of ghoulstone plucked up from the ground. Men and women starved, exhausted, and whipped bloody now took up arms against the barbarians that had inflicted such cruelties on them.
The Eirdkilrs died. In twos and threes, dragged down by their prisoners. Yet they died hard.
Axes, spears, and clubs lashed out, crushing heads, shattering limbs, and punching through torn cloth and emaciated flesh. The stench of split-open bowels, vomit, urine, and the metallic reek of blood hung thick in the air, all atop the layer of rot and decay rising from the pile of bodies. A pile that grew ever larger with every heartbeat.
Aravon charged through the chaos, trampling or cutting down any Eirdkilrs who stood in his way, never slowing in his mad dash toward the heart of the mine. Toward Tyr Farbjodr in the circle of blood-soaked black stone.
His eyes locked on the giant, who still held a weakly struggling Skuli aloft. Tyr Farbjodr’s face shone with a wild light of glee as he watched the Deid miner’s face purpling, tongue lolling from his mouth, his struggles growing weaker. The Eirdkilr licked the blood from his lips, salivating, as if preparing to feast on the dying Fehlan. He seemed to draw in a deep breath, his eyes closing, savoring the stench of Skuli’s terror.
“Farbjodr!” Aravon roared. “Farbjodr!”
The Eirdkilr’s eyes opened slowly and he turned his head toward the shout. The smile never left his face as he caught sight of Aravon charging toward him. He didn’t even release Skuli—he simply shifted his grip on the Deid and, with impossible strength, hurled him at Aravon.
Aravon sucked in a breath. Impossible! He had only an instant to duck as the Deid’s body flew over his head. Such a feat of strength, even for a giant of his stature.
Tyr Farbjodr’s grin widened as he reached for the axe on his back. “Come,” he roared, unslinging the massive weapon. “Come to me, and die as—”
The giant’s head suddenly snapped back, as if struck by an invisible hand. The shaft of an arrow blossomed from his right eye and he stumbled, falling hard against the nearest of the black stone pillars.
Hope surged within Aravon. Raising his spear high, he charged straight toward the giant. Arrows flew past his head, cutting down the three Eirdkilrs that stood between him and the wounded, dying Tyr Farbjodr. With a roar of rage, Aravon charged beneath the crude archway, onto the circle of black stone, and drove his spear straight into Farbjodr’s chest.
The force of the blow drove the weapon clean though the giant’s armor, ribs, back, and into the stone pillar. The haft of the spear was torn from Aravon’s grip and slammed into his side. Tore him from his saddle, sent him flying backward as his horse galloped onward. He fell hard, crashing into the black stone circle, splashing into the blood of the slain captives.
Air exploded from his lungs and his helmeted head cracked against the stone. Agony flared through every inch of his torso. Darkness filled his vision, the world a blur of torment around him. Blinking hard, fighting the pain flooding him, he struggled upright. Onto one elbow, then his hands, his knees. Lifted his head, shaking it to clear the flashes and dark spots. The world swam into focus, blurred, cleared.
He knelt amidst a pile of corpses—the slain Fehlan and Princelander captives, and four Eirdkilrs feathered with arrows—alone in the circle of bloodstained stone with the dying Tyr Farbjodr. Somehow, the Eirdkilr hadn’t yet died. His giant legs twitched and quivered, his gasps of agony loud amidst the screams of battle surrounding them. Blood trickled from his mouth, seeped around his ruined eye and down his cheek. Yet still he lived.
Good. A grim heat blazed within Aravon’s veins. I want to watch him die.
Twinges of pain sizzled like lightning along Aravon’s sides, down his spine, through his chest, yet he forced himself to stand. Teeth clenched, jaw muscles clamped tight against the agony. First one foot, then the other, straightening with effort. His eyes locked onto the dying Eirdkilr, and a snarl twisted his lips.
“For all the innocent lives you’ve taken,” he growled, “and all the misery you’ve caused, I sentence you to die.” He took a staggering half-step closer, drew his sword. The long blade dragged at his arm, and the simple act of lifting it sent agony flaring through his torso. Yet he raised it nonetheless. Raised it high above his head.
“This is for Captain Lingram!” With a roar, he swung the sword with every shred of his strength. Backed by the force of his rage, his grief, the pain of everyone he’d lost in this war against the bloodthirsty barbarian, a blow powerful enough to shatter stone. Odarian steel honed to a razor-sharp edge blurred in the brightening daylight as the sword flew straight toward the Eirdkilr’s head.
And stopped a hand’s breadth from Tyr Farbjodr’s neck.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Aravon’s eyes flew wide. He stood stunned, frozen in place in disbelief, staring at Tyr Farbjodr’s massive hand locked around his right wrist.
The Eirdkilr had caught his attack.
Confusion and shock set his mind reeling. How? The giant should be dead, and yet…
The fingers closed tighter around his wrist, so tight Aravon’s bones protested, grated together. Agony coursed through his forearm and the longsword fell from numb fingers. Instinct honed over years of training and battle kicked in and Aravon snatched up the blade as it fell. His grip closed around the solid, leather-wrapped hilt and he brought the blade whipping upward. Steel clanged off the Eirdkilr’s studded leather bracer, but the grip on his wrist loosened. Just enough he could tear his hand free.
He stumbled backward, off-balance, aghast and astounded. His gaze locked on Tyr Farbjodr. On the spear driven to the crossbar in the giant’s chest, pinning him to the stone monolith. The fletching of the arrow that sprouted from his right eye.
Yet somehow, impossibly, the giant still lived. Had strength and skill enough to stop the killing strike mid-swing.
A low, guttural growl rumbled from the Eirdkilr’s lips, his words unintelligible, garbled. The giant’s massive limbs moved, muscles flexing, his legs stiffening.
Aravon sucked in a sharp breath. It’s not possible!
Horror rooted him to the spot. He could do nothing but stare as Tyr Farbjodr reached up and grasped
the shaft of the arrow embedded in his eye. Gritting his teeth, the giant gave a sharp tug. The arrow pulled free with a sickening schlock. Blood soaked the steel head, and the eyeball dangled from the sharp tip. Yet Tyr Farbjodr only stared at it with a look of annoyance on his bloodstained face. Annoyance, and a flicker of pain.
“Interesting.” His voice, still guttural, formed the mangled words. Words that grew clearer with every heartbeat. “It’s been a long time since anyone got close enough to almost kill me.”
Aravon’s jaw dropped as the giant cast the arrow away—eyeball and all—and turned his one good eye down toward him. An eye, he saw, that had no white in the iris, no color at all. Simply pure black, darker than night, an empty void so deep and cold it sent a shiver down Aravon’s spine.
Keeper’s teeth! Aravon tried to move, tried to will his body to action, but the astonishment, confusion, and the pain of his wounds held him trapped. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the mangled socket that had once held Tyr Farbjodr’s right eyeball.
Then the bloodied flesh shifted. Shifted, squirmed, and slowly began to re-knit itself. The eyeball, blacker than the ghoulstone monolith behind him, formed, rolled around loosely in its socket, then came to rest on Aravon’s face. A savage grin broadened the Eirdkilr’s blue-and-blood-stained face.
“Nice try,” he growled. “But you’ll find, unlike the rest of these pathetic humans, that I’m not so easy to kill.” His huge fingers closed around the haft of Aravon’s spear and, with barely a grunt of effort or pain, he tore it free. Pulled the foot-long blade from the stone and through his body, tearing flesh and muscle with every movement. Yet he seemed not at all bothered. He held the bloodstained spearhead up before his face, his eyes locked on the rivulets of crimson trickling off its sharp tip, dripping onto the black stone beneath his feet.
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